


A Son of a Bitch of a Time

by bogged



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-18
Updated: 2004-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogged/pseuds/bogged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and the Weasleys get utterly pissed for Harry's 17th. Written in an admittedly odd style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Son of a Bitch of a Time

The bottles were all empty and the boys needed to keep their mouths, used to the cool slickness that's the rim of a bottle slipping between their lips and occasionally thunking against their teeth, moving or else they'd pass out. Or possibly vomit. Worst case scenario: one and then the other.

But this is Harry's seventeenth birthday party, and those thoughts are as far away from their minds as Harry is from Earth. Okay literally, he's at the Burrow, lying on top of Fred (or maybe George; is that Ron?) and blowing in his ear—Harry finds the way Fred/George/Ron's cock twitches a bit against a pair of thighs (one freckled, one too thin) every time he blows quite amusing. Inside his head… shit. Harry doesn't even know where Harry is. It's all a blur of freckles and liquor and sticky fingers massaging him from behind. He can't tell where a laugh stops and moan begins.

Tunnel vision, suddenly. Yellow and crimson zoom past on either sides; a cheeky, tanned, and blushing red-head the only object not swimming. Harry lets himself fall sideways and land in the crack between the unidentifiable Weasley and the back of the couch. Everything's black for a moment, and there's bile in the back of his throat, but there's also a pair of hands cupping his face and, in the way only drunk hands can do to a drunker body, giving him the strength to open his eyes and swallow the acid.

"Ask'm 'gain, Ron," someone, a female voice, (There are girls here? Harry's forgotten that part.) says from the floor.

Harry's couchmate shushes the girl and cups his face again. Ron's hands are clammy and slip down Harry's cheeks to trace the lines of his throat; neither mind so much.

"Harry," Ron says, determined to make sure he doesn't have to repeat himself again, "describe your utopia."

Harry blinks. He's pissed beyond standing up. His hips are pressed against Ron's. He's giving himself five minutes before he comes in his trousers. His back is sweating uncontrollably. And Ron wants to know what his fucking utopia is?

Well fuck that.

Harry's not sure exactly what happened next, but it either involved passing out and dreaming about Ron pushing him down on the bed, tying his wrists to the bedpost with a pair of Chudley Cannon boxer shorts and pushing his goddamn cock inside of Harry and fucking the hell out of him already; or that actually happening.

The next morning as Mrs Weasley charms the butter to spread itself, slow and thick, across the expanse of the pan, and Mr Weasley tries to electrify a rubber duck, Fred and George scoot closer to each other on the thin, twin mattress. George places a sleepy kiss on the base of his brother's neck and wishes himself back asleep.

Hermione wakes up Ginny to lecture her when she finds a bottle of spirits tucked next to a slightly-freckled breast. Ron hears the bitching and peeks his head in, one hand on the doorknob and the other gingerly patting a bite mark placed just underneath where his pubic hair begins.

Harry wakes up alone, with boxer shorts on his wrists and an arse that's hurting worse than his head. His first thoughts aren't of going back to bed or throwing up, although he'll be doing both in a minute. His first thoughts are out of his control, stragglers from the night before.

Slippery cheeks.  
Hands.  
"'m 'gain, Ron."  
Utopia.

Harry still hasn't a fucking clue what his utopia is like, and, in his own self-pitying way, doesn't figure he'll ever see it. But he can almost guarantee you it's red.

Red for Gryffindor and Quidditch Cups.  
Red for liquors and red for fire.  
Red for the backs of Harry's eyelids as the sun beats on his face.  
Red for the blush on Ron's cheeks and the colour of his cock as it thrusts in and out.  
Red for the scars on Sirius' body and the scratches on Remus' face.   
Red for passion and red for life.


End file.
